The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  When Olena and Borys stepped inside, they both understood instantly that they had reached the end of the line.

  95

  One of the benefits of living close to the office was that, during his lunch break, Rudi Hildebrandt often went home to his apartment for an hour, sometimes longer. It wasn’t unusual for him to have a female accompany him. There was a pretty young accounts clerk he was currently very much infatuated with.

  When Hildebrandt returned home at lunchtime on that particular day, he was alone and hardly thinking straight. He had never experienced a morning quite like it. With Arkady Nemikov dead, he, Rudi Hildebrandt, was suddenly the man in charge of administering the whole of Nemikov’s vast estate. It was a huge responsibility. Whilst he had no doubts about his ability to perform the role, it hadn’t stopped his anxiety levels from rising as soon as he heard the news upon reaching the office that morning. He had already tried, and failed, to make contact with the three holders of Nemikov’s key codes. In the meantime, the entire Nemikov financial empire had been frozen: the assets of the estate held in a form of Hildebrandt-imposed suspended animation.

  That lunchtime, he wasn’t interested in food. He had something much more urgent that he needed to attend to: updating the bank’s master records with the details of the new code that Arkady Nemikov had entrusted to Ben Lewis. At the time that he and Nemikov had spoken on the phone late the previous evening, Hildebrandt had taken copious notes on his laptop computer, completing the ‘change of details’ template that was necessary to update master password fields on the bank’s main computer server. Due to the late hour and because he was at home, he had been working offline: this had proven much easier and quicker, avoiding the need for numerous password access controls to be completed. His thinking, late in the evening, had been that he would take his laptop into work the following morning and synchronise everything then. The only problem had been that, in his haste to leave for work on time that morning, he had forgotten to remove his laptop from the safe and take it with him. He was going to have to do this now, during his lunch break. It was critically important to do this as soon as possible given Nemikov’s death.

  Retrieving the laptop from his well-hidden, fireproof, floor safe, he powered up the machine and waited for it to connect to his wireless network. Before he did anything else, he wanted to see what was being said online about the death of Arkady Nemikov. He went to the SRF1 website first but found nothing. Next he tried the BBC news channel and soon found a video news clip detailing the high-speed car crash. He clicked on the link and an annoying pop-up window appeared telling him that first he needed to upgrade his Flash Media Player. Exhaling with mild exasperation, he clicked on the link and waited whilst the new software downloaded. When prompted whether he was sure he wanted to open the programme, he clicked ‘yes’ in response, typing in his system password on the next page to complete the installation. Less than a minute later, the install was complete. He reopened his browser and was swiftly directed back to the same page on the BBC site. He clicked the link to start the media clip and watched in grim fascination. Even he, Rudi Hildebrandt, gave an involuntary shudder when he saw Nemikov’s wrecked Lamborghini. What a terrible way for anyone, let alone his biggest and most important client, to die.

  A few streets away, in her hotel room, Tian was, literally, jumping up and down with happiness. Once again, her box of tricks had performed its magic. She, Kristina Tian, was now fully in control of Rudi Hildebrandt’s laptop.

  As a hacker, her challenge was always finding ways to upload software on to a target computer without the owner ever being aware. Some of the more basic rogue software, or malware, only recorded keystrokes. These simple programmes were easy to install on a computer by means of an email attachment or a web link. They worked in the background and didn’t interfere with the computer operating system. More complicated malware, in particular any kind of software that attempted to take control of a computer, needed to permeate the heart of the computer’s operating system. In these circumstances, the malware could only be made to work if, first, the hacker had access to the system administrator passwords. Without that, it was useless.

  Several months ago, Tian had had a brainwave about how to do this.

  Why not disguise the software that she was trying to install by pretending it to be something else? By making it appear to be something that the computer user might be expecting to install – such as a software update or, for example, a periodic Flash Media update? The beauty of this approach was that the computer owner was tricked into entering their system administrator password, as part of what they believed was a genuine software install. They thought they were installing a new Flash Media update: in practice they were uploading Tian’s rogue software.

  It was genius. In one fell swoop, Tian now owned Rudi Hildebrandt’s laptop.

  Including all the information contained within it.

  96

  Having showered and borrowed a spare razor, Lewis feels presentable.

  “What’s the plan?” Zeltinger asks him. The children have left for school with their mother, and he and Lewis are finishing up the remains of a cooked breakfast that Hattie had prepared.

  “We have to think like the opposition,” Lewis says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand whilst munching on a slice of toast. “Their story, as best as I can make out, probably goes something like this.” He swallows a mouthful of coffee before beginning.

  “Certain Russian interests want to take control of Nemikov’s billions. This is unlikely to be a full-blown, state run, SVR mission: that’s too overt. No, a few powerful oligarchs are probably driving this whole thing – Nemikov mentioned one to me in particular: a man called Plushenko. Powerful Russians, with lots of money, all seriously pissed off about the West freezing their assets in their foreign bank accounts, as well as being barred from various commercial deals and the like. Make sense so far?” He takes another bite of toast and looks at Zeltinger, who nods in silent agreement.

  “So, they commission some private enterprise. Who better to take the lead than Oleg Panich? This man is a former SVR hero, pensioned off due to injury, and with an outstanding track record as a field agent. In picking Panich, they also gain an additional benefit: they have someone working for them who has real anger in his belly. The mission objective? To try and coerce Nemikov into handing over his billions – and, in particular, stop the man from directing his money to Kiev, to help prop up the anti-Russian government there. Panich, in turn, recruits a few team mates: one or two former SVR colleagues like the one I bumped into in Cambridge in the early hours of this morning; and also the bomber from the train.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Zeltinger says, interrupting him, “is why, if that hypothesis is true, are they trying to disguise everything to look like a series of terrorist attacks? The bomb on the train: the Venice vaporetto bomb that killed Nemikov’s wife? Why go to all the trouble?”

  “We think it killed Valentyna: we don’t know for sure, but let’s assume it did. The reason, I think, is this. Panich’s MO has been simple: kill the wife and daughter and then kidnap the son. Nemikov then has a choice: hand over his money or else the son is tortured and then killed and Nemikov Senior will have lost everything he holds dear. Arkady told me that himself: his wife and children are his Achilles heel. Dominant male syndrome being active in the Slavic cultures, Nemikov would be most worried about his son’s fate and would have yielded to the pressure.

  “Meanwhile, I think we need to imagine the pent-up frustration building amongst those oligarchs who have suffered sanctions. The sense of what they see as injustice against them gnaws away: who wouldn’t be interested in some kind of private retaliatory action against the West? However, Mother Russia doesn’t want itself, or its oligarchs, portrayed as a bunch of modern day gangsters. Maybe this desire for retribution has been bubbling away like an angry sore for some time, t
he pain and irritation getting worse day by day. Perhaps private enterprise against Nemikov is suddenly seen as a great mechanism for achieving two aims simultaneously: dealing with Nemikov – preventing his money from reaching Kiev – and exacting some revenge against the West? So they dream up the idea of a little subterfuge. Set off a few bombs here and there that cause widespread panic and destruction: make them look like the work of Islamic State – even if they aren’t; and make them coincidentally kill off, injure or maim one or two Nemikovs along the way. I ’d say that was a devilishly clever plan.”

  “It sounds a bit far fetched to me,” Zeltinger was saying. ‘Overly complex.”

  “Which to the Russian mind, makes it ideal. It is like a complicated chess strategy: the Russians thrive on them.”

  “Nemikov’s death must have been something of a game changer, then?”

  “Possibly. Or possibly not. Certainly no less complicated. For the moment, he needs to keep the two Nemikov children alive.”

  “And you too.”

  “Quite.”

  “I doubt that it will take him long to extract the codes from Olena and Borys. Once he has them, will he kill them?”

  “Hard to say. What if they deliberately give him the wrong codes? If Panich has killed them before he has verified that they are indeed the right codes, then it would all have been a bit pointless. I guess that Panich may want to keep them alive, until whoever has his hands on the money.”

  “So what next?”

  “Pound to a penny, Panich is here in London with Olena and Borys somewhere. I would also bet money that he has extracted the codes from them both. Guess who is the missing link?”

  “You.”

  “Correct. Right now, he’s going to be desperate to try and find me.”

  “How’s he going to do that?”

  “That, my friend, is what I’ve been thinking quite a bit about.”

  “I think you and Jake Sullivan ought to be having this conversation.”

  “I was thinking that earlier. Do you think he might be persuaded to make a visit to West Hampstead? If I step inside the solid stone walls of Millbank House, I might never be allowed out.”

  “I’ll give him a call and find out. Help yourself to more coffee.”

  97

  All things considered, Jake Sullivan arrives in remarkably quick time – once again, he has the same woman, Laura, in tow. Jake gives Lewis a back-thumping, ‘Hail fellow well met’ handshake. As before, Laura gives a cold, rather pointless, limp version, quickly sitting down at the round wooden breakfast table in between her boss and Zeltinger.

  As the broker of this off-the-record meeting, Zeltinger kicks off the proceedings.

  “Why don’t you give the same re-cap you gave me earlier, Ben? Then, I thought we could ask Jake and Laura to provide us whatever updates MI5 think it appropriate for us to hear. Does that sound like a plan? Help yourself to coffee. Mugs are behind you and there’s a fresh pot on the table.”

  Lewis repeats his potted version of what he thinks has been happening these last thirty-six hours. The two MI5 senior staff listen in silence. Jake nods at several points along the way; Laura is impassive. Once he is finished, Laura asks the first question.

  “Did Arkady Nemikov really give you a set of codes, Ben?”

  “Yes, he really did,” Lewis replies. He notes the trace of doubt in her voice and chooses not to over-react.

  “Are they written down anywhere?” she continues.

  “No.”

  “So where are they?”

  He taps his head.

  “I’ve memorised them.” This raises an eyebrow from Laura.

  “Do you think Nemikov’s wife is actually dead?”

  “I hope not, but I don’t know. I’ve got no insight as to what happened in Venice yesterday. Have they found her body?”

  “I don’t believe so.” She looks to Jake for confirmation. He shrugs and shakes his head.

  “What are you planning to do with the codes, Ben?”

  Lewis considers this before replying.

  “I don’t have a plan at present. I am not about to reveal them to anybody any time soon, that’s for sure.”

  “Why did you have to hit the Russian and the guy called Vince so hard? Those two are in a seriously bad way. They are not going to be any use to anyone for a long while. If ever.”

  “My heart bleeds, Laura. It’s a tough world we play in. They were trying to kill me.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “Try escaping from the bureaucratic comfort of a government department once in a while and come and see how the real world operates. It’s kill or be killed, trust me.”

  “Okay, you two: enough!”

  It is Sullivan speaking and he is determined to change tack.

  “This hypothesis of yours, Ben. About the Russians wanting to hide behind a smokescreen of supposed Islamic terror whilst performing evil deeds against the West. Is this simply conjecture, or do you have any proof?”

  “The man on the train who had the bomb in his rucksack. He was no more an Islamic terrorist than you or I. He is, either currently or in the distant past, a highly trained soldier. I am sure of it.”

  Sullivan looks at Laura and nods once again. It is a nod of assent: she has just been granted permission to do something. On cue, she removes a photograph from the folder beside her and pushes it across the table towards Lewis. He takes one look. It is the bomber from the train.

  “The man in that photograph, is Rafiq Virenque,” Sullivan recites from memory. “Half French, half Algerian, he joined the French Foreign Legion before being spotted by the Spetznaz who trained him, as you rightly assumed, with the Russian Special Forces. How did you know, by the way?”

  “It’s the way we walk, those of us who’ve undergone the training: it’s very distinctive.”

  “Virenque, it seemed, was pretty adept at killing people. He was headhunted by the KGB and transferred to their notorious Spetsbureau 13 division. Does that ring any bells?”

  Lewis shakes his head.

  “It’s Moscow’s assassin school. Virenque is a wet work specialist.”

  “Which, I guess makes my hypothesis about what Panich and Virenque are really up to seem more realistic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Neither Sullivan nor Laura reply. Instead, Sullivan waves a hand at Laura.

  “Why don’t you go on from here, Laura? Gentlemen,” he says to Lewis and Zeltinger, “What you are about to hear is highly classified. On no account is any of it to leave this room. Do I make myself clear?”

  Both men nod in silent agreement.

  “Very good. Laura, over to you.”

  “About six weeks ago, we began to pick up snippets of information about a large shipment of RDX– that’s C-4 plastic explosive to you and I – due to arrive in the UK. It was thought to be of Russian origin, but it was being routed via Poland and Ireland to lay a false trail. We tracked its arrival at Liverpool docks and traced it through to a warehouse just outside Bradford. It was cleverly and expensively disguised, hidden inside bona fide ink toner cartridges. Once in Bradford, the cartridges were disassembled and the sticks of RDX packed into Hessian sandbags, two sticks per bag. We maintained surveillance over the entire operation, for several reasons other than the obvious. Firstly, a lot of trouble and expense had been incurred to hide both the RDX and where it had originated. Secondly, the whole processing operation was also being watched over by a small SVR cell from the moment the product arrived in the UK.

  “It was, and still is, our belief that this entire consignment of RDX was for the purpose of supporting a major terrorist attack, most likely in London. We had two reasons to believe London was the target. Firstly, once all the RDX had been unpacked and then repackaged, in pairs, into the sand
bags, the completed sandbags were transferred by van down to a house in Kilburn in North London. The second reason is more complicated but provided the strongest evidence yet that London was the intended target.” She looks at Lewis briefly before continuing.

  “It was actually because of your intervention at Westminster Cathedral the other day, when you stopped the public beheading, that compelled us to reach out swiftly to our Islamic networks. We wanted to find out whether the statements about a new jihad against London were real or simply scaremongering rhetoric. One of our deep cover assets was living in the Kilburn house at the time. He advised his MI5 controller that something big was imminent.”

  Jake Sullivan takes over once more.

  “This is where the joys of departmental boundaries kick in. Operational jurisdiction for raiding the Kilburn premises fell to SO15, now counter terrorism command but formerly the Anti-Terrorist Branch and Special Branch before they merged together. What they didn’t know, when they raided the flat in the middle of the night, was that one of the four Asian males who lived there, a Pakistani called Sadiq, worked the night shift. Sadiq was employed as a contractor on London’s Underground network. SO15 located only about ten per cent of the total shipment of RDX hidden in the flat. A large quantity of sandbags had disappeared somewhere. Subsequent interrogation of those arrested revealed that Sadiq had been carrying two sandbags with him in his rucksack into work every night and leaving them somewhere. His flat mates didn’t know where. We don’t know where. We have to presume that the location is somewhere on the London Underground network.”

  “Why haven’t you been able to arrest Sadiq and interrogate him?” Zeltinger asks.

  Sullivan nods once more at Laura before she continues, permission given to reveal another secret.

  “Sadiq was killed in mysterious circumstances that same night. His death was made to look like an accident: we are convinced it was murder. We can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but we have video footage of someone approaching Sadiq moments before he died.” He passes across another photo that Laura has withdrawn from her folder.